


the laurels of doing is enough

by phantomreviewer



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fencing, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Sporting Injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-23
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:02:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomreviewer/pseuds/phantomreviewer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Grantaire could risk sleeping and not missing his stop then he’d have put his head down on the table the moment he’d shoved his bag into the overhead. As it is, despite being dead on his feet from the five am start he can’t risk the fine that would accompany missing his stop. </p><p>Knotting one hand in his hair, Grantaire sighed, leaning against the cool window pane. He can’t bring himself to care about the state of his appearance, although he can feel the grease and mess of his hair. Wearing a helmet for the best part of the day has caused his normally knotted and rough hair to become even harsher.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the laurels of doing is enough

**Author's Note:**

> Otherwise known as an exercise in self-indulgence. Once, a very long time ago I used to fence for my county, and then not so long ago I wrote a fencing!AU series in the Merlin fandom. So, a canonical fencer who is also Grantaire?, I had no hope.

The best way to describe the weather outside the train window would be dreary. There aren’t raindrops chasing their way down the pane; that would make the view slightly more interesting, but instead it’s just the greying countryside bleeding into the urban cityscape. The dull scene beyond the train pulls Grantaire’s attention back into the carriage.

 

Only a few of the inhabitants catch his eye, the carriage is half-way to empty anyway. There’s a businessman, tie still knotted around his throat, with his head in a Dan Brown novel, who looks like he’s deliberately ignoring that anyone else exists, a woman in a suit and trainers, tapping her feet occasionally to the beat that must be coming through her headphones. On the opposite side of the carriage to Grantaire are a couple of giggle students, drunk, or half-way there, sniggering quietly into each other’s shoulders. None of them are paying any attention to Grantaire, and that’s the way that he prefers it.

 

It’s the second three hour train that he’s been on today, and he was bored of the traveling before he’d even set off. It makes his muscles ache and his head hurt– as though he wasn’t exhausted anyway- and if he could risk sleeping and not missing his stop then he’d have put his head down on the table the moment he’d shoved his bag into the overhead. As it is, despite being dead on his feet from the five am start he can’t risk the fine that would accompany missing his stop.

 

With his feet propped up on the opposite seat instead Grantaire can concentrate on the satisfying ache that’s throbbing through his limbs, and highlighting on the fresh bruises blossoming on his skin. It’s a good feeling -he’s earned it- and it’s not even the fact that he’s been on his feet for the most part of eight hours. The pain fills the gaps.

 

Knotting one hand in his hair, Grantaire sighed, leaning against the cool window pane. He can’t bring himself to care about the state of his appearance, although he can feel the grease and mess of his hair. Wearing a helmet for the best part of the day has caused his normally knotted and rough hair to become even harsher, and it is sweat soaked and disgusting.

 

He’s just lucky that he’d had time to strip out of his kit and throw on his jeans and t-shirt -modesty be damned, if they’re not going to provide adequate changing facilities after tournaments then he’s not going to make a fuss- before heading out to catch his train. He’d not grabbed a jacket before leaving the flat that morning, bleary-eyed and trying to keep quiet before the sun had risen, and while he regrets it now it hadn’t mattered while he’d been fighting.

 

The call had come through in the day before, half imploring and half sweet-talking. One of the men’s foilists had dropped out at the last minute _Claude’s twisted his ankle, can’t play_ , and _the competition isn’t taking place too far from you, relatively speaking, I’m sure we could reimburse your travel R, come on, what else will you be doing with your day?_ and _We need to put at least a four man team through qualifying._ And foil isn’t Grantaire’s weapon, he’s prefers to play sabre, a slashing weapon as opposed being a point weapon such as foil, but he’s more than adequate. It hadn’t been a hardship to fence foil, and he can justify his clumsy mistakes for his early start and that his foil work is rusty. But he’d fenced, because he was qualified, and because he was asked, and because he was needed.

 

He’d not practiced foil for months, and that his own blade is still suitable for competition is more of a matter of luck than judgement, but a touch of discolouration on the metal isn’t enough to disqualify him. The least said about his warm up bout against Félix the better. No, Grantaire isn’t a natural foilist, it’s a point and precision weapon, and his style is far more suited to the mania that comes across through slash weapons.

 

Grantaire hadn’t played at competition levels for a few years, but even still the Southern Open seemed quieter than he’d expected. Not even thirty competitors in the men’s single foil set. They’d still been almost continuous fencing from the opening bout at ten until the men’s single finale at five thirty. The shaking of his hands could be attributed to nerves or adrenaline, but he knows that’s not true. But he’d been steady enough to hold his blade.

 

It made him easier to be underestimated, but those who did turned out to be wrong. And even on his bad days Grantaire knows that he’s good at this. It’s even an act of charity to his opponent to give them enough of a target area, smaller with foil than it is with sabre, but still sizable.

 

While Grantaire had made a few simple mistakes, and those mistakes are now written on his skin, a cut on his leg, where the join between his breeches and his socks had parted, a graze on his inner-elbow, a slash bruise against his thigh and a purpling collarbone, but his opponents had been equally cocky and bruised. They’d all been well matched. But his final opponent had been slightly over confident when faced with the hunched and tired Grantaire, and had been zealous, and those rookie mistakes had fallen in his favour.

 

Leaning back from the window and Grantaire shrugged further back into a slouch, digging his phone out of his pocket. He’d not even thought to turn it on once he’d arrived at the competition, but now as it flickers into life, screen shattered from one too many drops after the Musian, and it buzzes. He ignores the messages, one from his sister, a couple of spam messages, and one surprisingly from Feuilly, and instead flicks onto facebook.

 

He’s got more notifications than he expected, but through clicking through the links it seems that Félix after losing his own match had taken to snapping bad quality pictures of the men’s single finals, and a couple of Grantaire shaking hands with the umpire and adjudicator, and the final handing over of the tacky, if well-earned medals.

 

He’s been tagged in more of them than he’d expected, and he looks just as haggard, sweaty and exhausted in them as he imagines that he looks now. There are more than a few likes on the photos from the finale, accumulating with Grantaire shaking the adjudicator’s hand with the gold medal gripped against his foil in the other.

 

 _Dude, awesome!_ (Courfeyrac.)

 

 _R, mate, we wondered why you’d dropped off the radar today. Should have told us, we’d totally have come and cheered you on._ (Bahorel.)

 

 _Room for improvement there Grantaire._ (Éponine.)

 

 _Jump into my grave as quick would you Grand R? Congrats mate, well played._ (Claude.)

 

 _Nice one! (I hope you warmed up properly!)_ (Joly)

 

 _What he said._ (Bousset)

 

 _And you said you were no good, well done R. Now you’ve_ got _to teach me, I won’t take no for an answer :-P_ (Cosette.)

 

 _Gold! Oh you fabulous man._ (Jehan)

 

There’s no comment from Enjolras, but that doesn’t matter because Grantaire wasn’t expecting one. Enjolras tends to use his facebook for its message function and to make connections with other social activist groups, not for the mere likes of him. He’d left him a note, and he knew that today was a full-one for Enjolras’ schedule; he’d have only got in the way.

 

The giggling from the girls across from him isn’t distracting enough to drag him from his phone on its own, but he’s bored and listening to their conversation is something to do.

 

They obviously think that they’re being subtle, leaning on each other and whispering at a volume that projects across the carriage. Giggling and rating the inhabitants of the carriage, ‘would you like you know?’, ‘eww, I’ve got some standards, what about you?’ ‘god no’ and Grantaire looks up, catching the eye of the business woman who’s now pulled her headphones out. She doesn’t return Grantaire’s eye roll.

 

He can’t bring himself to care about the comments that are being made. He knows that he looks a mess, hair having escaped from its bandana mid-bout and becoming sweat soaked and tangled under his helmet well into the day. Helmet hair is the worst. He’s not the only one that the girls are giggling over, the man who’d got off at the stop before had a receding hairline and the sweet couple apparently clash against each other, her hijab too brightly coloured against his polo shirt. But Grantaire is ruddy faced with filling bags under his eyes. Then again his face on a good day isn’t exactly a masterpiece, maybe a knock-off Picasso.

 

Much to his amusement the two girls are getting off at the same stop as him. He steps up with far more grace than the pair of them, and grabs his kit from the overhead storage, slinging it over his shoulder, letting the girls onto the platform first- checking his pockets for this phone and wallet.

 

The kit bag slaps against his back and Grantaire can’t help his grin as he walks up the platform. There’s always something vaguely amusing about traveling with weaponry, even though buttoned and blunted it shouldn’t be able to do too much damage. The oil spill of bruises against his skin shows differently.

 

One of the girl’s has turned on her heels through the ticket-barriers, and he’s looking at the pair of them, holding the other up and still giggling, as he passes through the barrier in front of him- making sure not to catch his bag in the closing gates- so that he barely notices that someone has stepped into his path.

 

He does notice though, and pulls to a halt just looking at Enjolras; Enjolras who might be wearing _his_ hoodie, the hoodie that he’d definitely thrown onto his battered armchair yesterday, still damp from the rain. He’s about to make some comment on Enjolras’ unexpected appearance, some variation on ‘fancy seeing you here’ more than likely, and readjusts the strap digging into his shoulder, but the movement pulls at his t-shirt, and Enjolras makes a hissing breath through his teeth, and steps forward.

 

Enjolras is pressing his fingers against the newly exposed bruise at his collar bone and frowning, probing the edges firmly, as though it would dissipate at his touch.

 

Grantaire winces.

 

Enjolras catches his eye, although his hand is still firm.

 

“You won.”

 

Enjolras can surely feel the tug of skin as Grantaire jostles his shoulders, half a shrug and half a nod.

 

“Yes. You can stop doing that now you know.”

 

Enjolras doesn’t apologise, and he doesn’t even drop his hand away, leaving his fingers against the marred skin.

 

The girls have stopped giggling, Grantaire notes, they might have rightened themselves and walked away, but he can’t bring himself to turn his head to look.

 

“Congratulations.”

 

There’s something gathering in the back of his throat, but his voice comes out far softer than it’s come out to anyone else today. And it’s been a long day.

 

“It was nothing, my final opponent was a joke. I’ve barely practiced in-”

 

Enjolras fingers are tightening in the collar of his shirt, and it’s enough of a declaration of intent that Grantaire stops, waiting the few seconds it takes Enjolras to mentally map his reply and retort.

 

“No Grantaire. You did well, and you ought to acknowledge it. You won your set.”

 

He’s midway to a shrug when Enjolras’ free hand cups the back of his head, fingers twisting into his sweaty, tangled mess of hair. He’s disgusting.

 

“I didn’t have a chance to shower before my train.”

 

Enjolras shrugs, and it jostles the material of Grantaire’s shirt, and Enjolras uses the movement to slide his fingers under the strap of the bag, softening its dig into his shoulder.

 

“Easily rectified when we get home.”

 

Enjolras hasn’t let him go, and Grantaire doesn’t even want to be close to himself right now- he’s been on his feet for hours-, but Enjolras presses closer still, until his Romanesque features are right up against Grantaire’s own. His hand is still pressed against his collar bone, and then Enjolras is bending to accommodate their height difference, the fingers fractionally tightening in Grantaire’s hair, steering his face upwards. Leaving them nose-to-broken-nose.

 

He doesn’t kiss like he wants to. He kisses him like he needs to.

 

When Enjolras pulls back, his breath is warm against Grantaire’s face.

 

“You won.”

 

Grantaire nods, still feeling Enjolras’ fingers entwined tightly in his hair, as though he doesn’t know how to let go.

 

“I won.”

 

And Grantaire isn’t so sure whether he’s talking about the bout or not. But then Enjolras is pulling away, unravelling his fingers, and running is hand down the length of Grantaire’s arm, tutting over the graze at the elbow – the point of his opponent’s blade had dragged at the jacket, impressive friction burn that had torn the skin. He hadn’t even felt it until he’d taken out his body wire and then it stung like a bitch- and not taking Grantaire’s hand, but pulling it to rest in the crook of his own elbow.

 

Enjolras’ hand is clasped onto the one hooked into his elbow, and Grantaire is being held up by Enjolras’ presence. It’s steadier this way, had Enjolras tried to take his hand then between the angle of his shoulder and the added weight of the kit-bag would be liable to fall from his shoulder. Despite the weird shape of the bag all that kit added together weighs a decent amount.

 

The girls have gone. Grantaire hopes that they enjoy their evening.

 

He doesn’t know what he was planning to do once the train pulled in, he hadn’t expected Enjolras to be waiting for him, and hadn’t thought through his evening. He could have easily justified going out and celebrating, or even picking up a couple of bottles of something above-average quality before crashing on the sofa.

 

Instead he’s being steered out of the station, through the dimly lit streets and back alleys that he knows like the back of his hand, into the tiny flat – clean and bereft- owned by Enjolras. It doesn’t quite feel right just to dump his kit bag next to the door, but there’s nowhere else for it. Really he ought to get it washed right away, but instead he just leaves it by Enjolras’ door.

 

They’ve been living in each other’s pockets but they end up spending more time at Grantaire’s own flat. He’d imagined it as Enjolras compartmentalising his life, but maybe not. But in spending time in Enjolras’ flat he finds himself drawn down onto the sofa, and Enjolras pressing over his bruises, and the bags under his eyes like they’re something other than signs of mistakes.

 

“I had to let myself out of your flat this morning you realise?”

 

Grantaire had been loath to leave Enjolras sleeping in his bed, unwilling to disturb him after he’d asked whether he could stay. He could never turn Enjolras away, and nor would he want to. The subject of Grantaire’s five o’clock start hadn’t come up, and when his alarm had rang obnoxiously early it had been a desire not to wake Enjolras as opposed to his natural vim and vigour which had stirred him.

 

“My train was at six, I had to leave early.”

 

Enjolras is still touching him, and while it’s not unusual for the pair of them to be tactile Enjolras’ hand against his neck is firmer, and less fleeting than he would normally expect. As though Enjolras wants to pin him there with more than the power of his mind, not that he needs to.

 

“I didn’t know where you’d gone, or why. I guessed it was something important, anyway, Combeferre told me this afternoon.”

 

The movement that Grantaire responds with is really more of a rearrangement into the comfort of the sofa, and he reaches out his own hand to brush against Enjolras’ knee in apology.

 

“I wrote you a note; I think I left it in the kitchen?”

 

The shake of Enjolras’ head is only slight, but it’s there, and Grantaire suddenly feels awful.

 

“I left right away, I didn’t see it.”

 

He tightens his grip on Enjolras’ knee. He knows Enjolras’ schedule, and where he can and should fit into it, but if he’d woken up expecting Enjolras, only to find an empty bed.

 

“Sorry.”

 

Enjolras’ smile is suddenly bright, lighting up his face, and Grantaire can’t help but bask in it, biting his own lip as he looks directly into the sun.

 

“Don’t apologise, but you can stay here tonight, so I can know where you are.”

 

Sitting down had sapped the last of Grantaire’s strength, but he makes a feeble effort to ruffle Enjolras’ hair because if he can’t make a reassuring nuisance of himself then what can he do?

 

Enjolras’ shower is much more exuberant than Grantaire’s own. The shower head has different settings- that Grantaire rarely adjusts when he uses it- and the glass door pulls completely too with a satisfying vacuum seal. It’s also a little bit of a squeeze with the two of them, turning it into a rudimentary and practical experience. But Enjolras washes Grantaire’s hair and soft hands and gentle lips skim over the mars previously covered by clothes.

 

Grantaire emerges smelling like Enjolras’ shampoo.

 

The day has been obscenely long, with travel and continuous fighting taking its toll, and despite Grantaire’s best efforts he is asleep before Enjolras. Collapsed on top of Enjolras’ neatly made bed, but when he wakes in the night the sheets have been pulled over him, cocooning in the warmth, and Enjolras tucked himself around him, one hand resting on his shoulder, fingers bracketing the bruise on his collar bone.

 

(When emptying out his kit bag the next afternoon, to shove his fading and used whites into Enjolras’ temperamental washing machine, Grantaire leaves the medal, about the size of a tea light with its purple ribbon and tacky engraving, on the shelf above Enjolras’ television and forgets about it. That is, until a few weeks later when, at Courfeyrac’s insistence it is declared Enjolras’ turn to host what amounts to the Les Amis film and pizza night.

 

Courfeyrac, acting on a magpie instinct spots the shiny thing above Enjolras’ television when Enjolras’ back is turned, and he’s grabbed at it holding it up to the light before he’s realised what it is. Courfeyrac is gleeful, Jehan and Bahorel ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ in harmony with each other, and Enjolras blushes in a way that Combeferre would later describe as painfully, before snatching it back. Courfeyrac raises his hands in mock apology, but has collapsed back onto the seat now occupied by Éponine’s feet, “get off you oaf” before Enjorlas can comment.

 

Enjolras turns and almost sheepishly holds out the ribbon to Grantaire, who hasn’t moved from his position perched on the arm of the sofa and is seemingly unaffected by the spectacle.

 

“You should keep it.”

 

Enjolras’ blush fades, but doesn’t dissipate, and he sinks back into the chair, pulling his legs up against his chest, and leaning into Grantaire’s side.

 

It only takes one harrumph and stern glace around the room before Feuilly is hastily pressing the play button once more.

 

They all pretend that Enjolras isn’t holding the medal idly against his lips as the film continues, and Grantaire goes back to twisting Enjolras’ golden curls between his fingers.)

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a bastardisation of the quote “the glory of doing it is enough for me”, from a conversation between Nisus and Euryalus in _The Aeneid_ , both due to the Nisus & Euyralus comparisons in the Brick, and the fact that my latest foils have been named after those same Trojans.
> 
> a) Fencing injuries are complete bastards. (I didn’t include the two most dramatic that I’ve experienced/known about, because no one would believe me, but, oh I wince just remembering them.)  
> b) I appear to have a Enjolras-picking-Grantaire-up-from-public-transport thing going on in my fluff-esque fics.  
> c) This fic just wouldn’t end, it's about 1000 words longer than anticipated.  
> d) What are tenses again anyway?


End file.
